The Lives We Hide
by RRP
Summary: The secret lives of some Pretender characters. Not entirely humor, some serious stuff too. Enjoy! R/R!


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, I don't own MTV, I don't own VH1 ("VH1, Where are they? follows...big star machine!) For that last thing in parentheses, I now have to say I don't own Superchic[k]. 

  


A/N: This was born early in the morning in a PretenderChallenges chat room. Lyle hints at his side-job, and Broots comes full blast. Next chapter, more of Lyle, and Sam starts to enter the story. Any ideas for what Sydney could do? I'm looking for outrageous side jobs. Although, there are going to be more serious moments, this is mostly comedy and partly a soap-opera spoof, though only slightly. Un-beta-ed, so if you find any mistakes, feel free to mention them. I do own the name "Lonely Morgan" and the song lyrics, as I wrote them. Lyrics can be obtained by emailing me at RivenRebelPoet@hotmail.com, or by poking me in a chat or IM. I've been rather dry writing-wise, so this is the clearance of a rusty faucet. R/R!

  


The Lives We Hide

_by RRP_

  


Lyle Parker was in a bad mood– he was past shouting and ranting, or verbally tearing someone apart at work. That stage had passed a few hours ago. Now, his frame of medium height was slouched over as he sat atop a bar stool, and a few wisps of hair– which had been in perfect order earlier in the afternoon– flew about haphazardly every time he took a swig of his drink. 

It was the ideal bad mood drink– tall glass, and lots of alcohol. A fuzzy, numb feeling was already growing in his mouth and his mind was becoming clouded. He finished the glass, and slapped the counter to get the bartender's attention. "Hit me." The words were mumbled, but the bartender caught them and started mixing up another drink. 

He ran his right hand through his already tousled brown hair, and sighed. His left hand, the hand missing a thumb, was tucked under the counter; more out of habit than conscious shame. Despite his usually careless attitude about the maimed hand, its appearance did in fact bother him greatly. It tore him up inside every time someone caught sight of it and flinched. 

The new drink was set in front of him without so much as a blink from the bartender, who moved on to start wiping down another area of the long counter. The bar itself was pitifully empty, three or four other lost souls hunched over drinks at tables behind him. Lyle was the only person at the counter, and he was actually glad he had come on a dead night. Less people to deal with. He dealt with people all day, and the silence was a welcome break.

Being drunk helped some, too.

The door opened, and Lyle barely bothered to turn his head– he only did so out of the faint fear that it would be someone he recognized, or worse– someone that would recognize him. Even mostly drunk, he knew that it just wouldn't do for some Sweeper or Technician to start telling people they saw the fearsome Mr. Lyle get drunk at a random Blue Cove bar. 

It wasn't anyone who inspired even the smallest bit of familiarity; the man who had walked through the door nodded to the bartender and took two of the thoroughly drunk men at the tables. Lyle sighed again, as the man left with his two "prisoners", one of which was loudly complaining about leaving the rest of his final drink. Not long after, the only other customer besides Lyle stood up, and staggered out of the building.

Lyle looked down into his nearly empty drink with a lopsided frown, and then tossed the rest of the burning liquid down his throat. The Bartender watched without an ounce of interest, and then took the empty glass as soon as Lyle set it down. 

"Tough day?" The stocky man asked quietly, setting the dirty glass down with several others, and beginning to straighten up the bar. 

"Something like that." Lyle replied, though the words were greatly slurred. "Say..." The bartender looked up at him, one eyebrow raised, and Lyle grinned. "What would you like to see in a romance novel? I need an idea or two." 

"Me? Don't read 'em." The bartender replied with a shrug, as he went about preparing for the two A.M. crowd. "But if I did, I'd say I'd like to see one where the lady dies or something at the end. Happy endings always seem fake."

"I know what you mean." Lyle said, mouth suddenly twisting into a frown again, nodding and toying with a napkin. "I'll see you around, maybe." Lyle stood up, and started walking away from the counter when everything got fuzzy. The world spun around him at an alarming pace, and Lyle called out to nothing in particular, "Hey! Slow down..." 

He felt himself falling, and then hitting the ground, although it all sounded and felt distant. The last thing he remembered was looking up at the still violently moving ceiling as it faded into blackness.

(*)

Miss Parker growled at the phone as it started to ring just as she was drifting off to sleep. She picked it up, and snapped into the receiver, "What?" There was utter silence on the other end. Then the sound of someone clearing their throat, before the person finally spoke.

"Um, Miss Parker?" 

"That's me." Miss Parker bit off the affirmative words, sarcasm edging it's way onto her tone. 

"Your brother is here at Blue Cove General. He has you listed as next of kin..." The female voice continued hesitantly, and Miss Parker sighed as she dropped her head into her free hand, while muttering under her breath, "Please, God, let him be near death. Please." The female on the phone went on, giving no sign that she had heard.

"He was brought in about fifteen minutes ago after he collapsed in a bar. He apparently had an overdose of alcohol. We need you to come in to sign him out and pick him up." Miss Parker blinked– she had often perceived Lyle as stupid, but the total lack of self-control was completely out of character for him. 

"We are talking about Lyle Parker, correct?" Miss Parker asked just to check, wincing as she added her last name to Lyle's first. 

"Um, yes, ma'am. Lyle Parker. How long do you think it will take you to get here? If someone doesn't pick him up within the next two hours, we'll have to turn him out on the street. We have a pressing need for rooms in the facility." 

Despite the fact that it was nearly one in the morning, and that it was a widely known fact that she hated Lyle, she couldn't let them throw him out on the street. He'd never forgive her, and while she didn't mind personally, the pressure he could put on her at work could make things unbearable. She made up her mind, and was pulling off the silk pajama pants even as she answered.

"I'll be there in under an hour." She hung up without waiting for a response, and grabbed a pair of jeans out of the closet. In less than fifteen minutes, she had brushed and pulled up her hair, and gotten dressed in semi-casual wear. The jeans and shirt were of course designer make, and expensive, but it was the loosest thing she had besides a few of her father's old sweatshirts. 

Miss Parker slid behind the steering wheel of her sleek Boxster, and squealed out of the driveway without further ado. She was going to kill her twin brother, preferably in the most painful method available, and then she was going to kill him again. Then she would take two days off work, and sleep. It wasn't enough, apparently, that Jarod was making his midnight phone calls at least once a week now. She could have sworn he ended the last conversation (which was less than fifty words altogether), with "to be continued". No, life was determined to make itself miserable for her. Now she got phone calls from random hospital workers to inform her of her psycho-twin's inebriate whims and the accidents that resulted thereof. 

The tiny Boxster zoomed into the hospital parking lot with speed that may have caused an accident had the parking lot been more inhabited. By the looks of things, the "pressing need for rooms in the facility" was a standard hospital spiel– that, or a lot of people had gotten better really fast. 

Miss Parker, even in jeans and a loose shirt, made an imposing figure. The heels of one of the few pairs of flats she owned clicked against the hard hospital floor, biting angrily at the white-walled silence. The smell of sanitized rooms, latex gloves, and various drugs hung heavy in the air as she hurried past them towards the back nurse's station– where Miss Parker had been informed at the front she could find out information concerning Lyle's whereabouts. 

The double doors at the end of the hall were flung open, the automatic spring systems slowing their journey with a hiss of air. Miss Parker looked around, one eyebrow raised, before she spotted the desk. One pastel-coated nurse sat at the computer, typing something and looking at the screen. Miss Parker strode over and tapped with a fingernail on the laminated counter-top. 

"I'm looking for Lyle Parker?" She snapped. The nurse looked up, rather startled, and nodded almost immediately. The sandy-haired nurse pointed down another hall, as she pulled out a clipboard. 

"He's down there. I need you to sign this first." The clipboard was slapped down in front of Miss Parker with a cheap pen, and Miss Parker looked it over briefly before signing her name at the bottom with a flourish. The nurse nodded, and flipped the top paper over to reveal another white, legal looking sheet. "Our records show this is the first time he's ever been in this kind of trouble. If you can verify that, then there won't be any need for him to return for counseling. However, he does need to be informed that if there is a second incident, he will be required by law to enroll himself in a program." 

Miss Parker nodded with a bit back growl, and scrawled her name again. "Yeah. This is a first for him." She said out loud as she handed the clip board back. "Does it say anywhere on there that I'm not permitted to kill him?" 

The nurse laughed nervously, as she set the clip board down and filed the papers Miss Parker had just signed. Miss Parker took the laughter as the only answer she was going to get, and started off down the second hall. Her heels continued to rap out a quick beat, and the double doors were pushed open with the same fury as the first go around. 

Lyle sat in a chair in what looked to be a general waiting room, his head in his hands. At her entry, he looked up, only to cast his gaze back down at the floor rather quickly. Miss Parker sighed, and studied him carefully before taking the chair next to him. "Care to tell me why I was called at one in the morning to pick you up?" Lyle gave a tired shrug of his shoulders in reply.

"Would you put Dad down as your next of kin?" He asked as an answer. Miss Parker opened her mouth, but Lyle spoke again. "I guess you would. He acts different with you than he does with me. It's like he expects me–"

"To be perfect." Miss Parker finished with him. He nodded and looked at her with a sheepish smile, his eyes a little bloodshot, but looking much more sober overall. 

"Yeah." They sat in silence for a few seconds, before Miss Parker announced,

"I am going to have to kill you, you know." Lyle chuckled and nodded, as he stood up and rubbed the back of his head.

"I know." 

"Come on, my car is this way." Miss Parker motioned for him to follow her, finding herself surprisingly more civil than she expected to manage to be. Lyle trailed after her quietly, as she retraced her steps through the hallways and past the front desk. 

In the Boxster, Miss Parker put her hands on the wheel as Lyle buckled his seat belt. She looked over at him in the soft glow from the street lamps towering above the parking lot, as he looked straight ahead out of the windshield. 

"Your place is forty minutes across town. Mine's fifteen minutes from here." Miss Parker made an offer she never thought she would hear herself make– "Want to crash on my couch?" Without taking his eyes off the grim landscape of concrete and pavement before the car, Lyle answered,

"Only if you don't mind." 

"Not much. It means less driving for me. I'd have a half an hour drive back to my house after dropping you off." 

"Then the couch it is." Lyle exclaimed softly, as Miss Parker started the engine of the little sports car. She tore out of the parking lot and onto the main strip of road leading to the turn-off that would take them to her house. After about ten minutes of her high-speed and rip-around-the-corner driving, Lyle jerked on her sleeve with a muffled,

"Pull over!" She did so immediately, fearing for her leather seats. As soon as the car skidded to a stop, Lyle was out the door, seat belt already unbuckled. She stayed in the car, eyes watching the quiet and empty road as her brother emptied the contents of his rebellious stomach, the sudden sickness mostly induced by the large amounts of alcohol he had consumed earlier. 

It wasn't long before he was sliding back into the car, and shutting the door. "There are napkins in the glove compartment." She spoke before pulling back onto the road. There was a metallic click as the glove compartment was popped open, and then a mumbled, "Thanks", from Lyle. She said nothing in reply. 

(*)

David Broots packed the black and ivory electric guitar into a hard-shell case with a grin on his face, the sounds of equipment being disassembled and packed away reverberating behind him. The occasional shout of glee from where the entire audience had been made him chuckle, and he snapped the guitar case shut. 

Most of the crowd had already drifted away, and left behind were a few hopefuls with autograph-ready material, and the MTV and VH1 cameras. A large black camera, recording light blinking red, moved past him, "MTV" emblazoned on the side; and Broots waved at it. The cameraman gave him a thumbs up, and moved on. 

He picked up the handle of his guitar case, and moved towards the carry-cart already half-full of instrument pieces and equipment, ready to be loaded on the van. Just as he set it down, a handful of hysterical sounding girls flew over to him, two security guards following them with annoyed looks upon their faces. 

The girls thrust t-shirts, CDs, and posters towards him, and he pulled a black marker out of his shirt pocket– one he kept for such backstage meeting– and began signing the different objects, while nodding for the security guards to step back. A photographer walked past with a string of cameras around his neck, and Broots shouted for him. The man whirled, and within seconds was handing the girls Polaroids. They thanked and expressed their love to Broots profusely, and then were gone as quickly as they had come. 

Broots chuckled again, and reveled in the attention. It was this that allowed him to live through Miss Parker's verbal torture sessions. If only she knew...He laughed outright at the mental image of Miss Parker attempting to believe his "side-career". 

His fellow band members were watching a reply of the concert on a little TV about thirty yards from him, and eating pizza; so he walked over to join them. Broots grabbed a piece of the pizza, and watched the screen intently. 

He was front and center with his guitar, Joey Steph was next to him with another electric six-string, Ian Foster was playing bass, and Truman Pizoaski was on the drums. Tru bore the most visible tattoos, though Ian and Joey had quite a few. Broots himself had almost none– choosing to remain un-inked for the time being. "Lonely Morgan" was flashing in big letters on the huge screen suspended behind them on the stage, and flashed an image relevant to the song once in a while. 

The tape was actually nearing the end of the concert, for the little copies of them on the screen were starting their title-song, the song they almost always closed with. The rap-alternative rock fusion of music drifted from the little speakers as Joey rapped the opening lines. Broots stepped away as he finished his slice of pizza, and almost immediately ran into a guard with a tall man standing behind him. 

"Mr. Broots, this guy claims he knows you. Insisted he had to see you." 

"Thanks, Mark." Broots nodded as the tall stranger stepped into view. His appearance didn't really surprise Broots– he had expected him to find out a lot sooner. "I know him." The words were enough for the guard, who left the two to return to his post. 

"So, does the Centre know about your side job?" The familiar voice of Jarod asked, as he looked around the backstage setup. Broots shook his head. "Does your band name have anything to do with Miss Parker?" Broots grinned, and nodded.

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to get information about her on the Centre mainframe. I found her first name in less than ten minutes. She doesn't know I know, so I'd prefer you keep it quiet." 

"Debbie?" Jarod asked absently, as he studied a nearby speaker. "Is she just part of your mask?" 

"No. She's not." Broots responded firmly. "She's asleep on the band bus, actually." Broots started walking, and Jarod followed, eyes still wide and wondering. Broots led him towards the stage, and pushed aside a heavy curtain drape. They stepped onto the large stage in clear view of the arena, with enough seating for nearly ten thousand people. "Pretty impressive, isn't it?" Broots asked quietly, looking out over the now-empty seating area. Jarod nodded wordlessly, and pointed to a balcony. 

"I was up there. I watched the whole performance. It was rather good." 

"Thanks." Broots looked up at the balcony, and sighed. "I'm going to catch some sleep myself. It's been a long day. I can introduce you to the rest of the band first. What last name are you using this week?" 

"The credit card I used to pay for my ticket says Jarod Fender. I can't tell you what name I'm really using– that'd be cheating." Jarod flashed Broots a sardonic grin, and Broots chuckled again.

"Fender? A little too obvious, Wonderboy." 

"You're awfully out of character, you know that?" Jarod said with a frown. Broots chuckled again, and gave his excuse.

"I'm David Broots, lead singer of Lonely Morgan right now. If you want the nervous techie Broots, wait until I'm back at the Centre." Jarod nodded with an unsure look, and Broots looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "I'm getting an awful lot of doubt concerning the double identity thing from a man who spends his days pretending to be other people." That made Jarod's grin return, and he slapped Broots on the back.

"Good point." Broots led the way to the back stage again, where the other band members were finishing the pizza and rewinding the concert video. A tall, slim man with black plastic rimmed glasses and trendy clothing hurried towards them with a notebook in his hand, and barely noticed Jarod as he started reading things from the notebook and adding another comment here or there.

"Joey, next time, don't go out unless I make sure your pants and shirt are made by the same company. And see me tomorrow about your hairstyle, we need to change it. It's getting old. David, I know I swore I wouldn't bother you about your haircut, but I've had enough. Personally, I think you'd look great if you just shaved your head completely. Go for a Bruce Willis type look, okay? Tru, how many times do I have to tell you– don't take off your shirt in between songs! If you want to take it off, either start shirtless or take it off while you're offstage! Ian, do not, I repeat, do not make random spaceship noises into the microphone while we're tuning guitars. Tru, don't you dare encourage him. Joey, I need the music for that new song by tomorrow morning and whoever is writing them this time, I need the lyrics. We have to have the new teaser song put together by tomorrow evening at the latest, MTV is already asking when our next video is going to be out." 

"Gregory, this is Jarod Fender. Jarod, Gregory York, our manager." Gregory had paused to catch his breath, and he shook Jarod's hand and spoke in a stage whisper.

"You have no idea what I have to deal with here." Broots watched as Jarod's eyes glazed over with a distant look, and he blinked several times and winced, before replying the in the same whisper,

"I've got a pretty good idea. Good luck." Gregory almost didn't hear it, as he was already pulling Ian aside to speak with him in private. Broots took a deep breath, and then continued with the introductions. 

"Jarod, this is Truman Pizoaski and Joey Steph. That over there is Ian Foster. Tru, Joey, this is Jarod Fender. He's an, um...friend of mine." 

The two men, easily in their late twenties, shook hands with Jarod and Joey offered him a piece of pizza, as Tru began absently tapping out a beat on the side-table with his ever present drum sticks. Jarod accepted the slice of pizza, and spoke around a bite in his mouth. 

"I should be going. I have work tomorrow." 

"Where do you work?" Joey asked the seemingly innocent question, and Jarod froze. If he answered honestly, Broots would know what he was doing; something he planned to do for several weeks without anyone finding him. He wasn't too thrilled with lying, and any answer he gave could lead to more extensive searches by the Centre's Broots, which would probably lead to them finding him anyway. 

"Jarod's a psychiatrist." Broots answered, saving him from the trouble. Joey laughed, and responded with,

"You suck!" While Truman looked up and proclaimed, "Shut-up!" with a laugh of his own. Jarod blinked.

"Excuse me?" 

"Like he said, it's late." Broots flashed Truman and Joey a look that clearly said, "Don't ask", and he pulled Jarod after him towards the exit. Once out of earshot of the two other men, Broots assured him, "It's just slang. They think it's cool." 

"Oh. What strange phrasing. One actually means to remain silent, and the other would imply that I was an infant consuming it's food supply. That or someone in the act of-" Broots shoved Jarod out the door with a rushed, "You've definitely been awake too long. Go get some sleep." Jarod wandered off, still muttering out loud as he mused over the possible meanings of the two slang phrases. 


End file.
